The Flavour of Spite – Five

 

Image credit: Bondarenko

Image credit: Bondarenko

The readiness is all.

I have a weakness here, I have to admit. My conditioning has had this impact, this effect, where my mind finds it hard to settle for long enough to truly plan and achieve. This has not been a problem in my day-to-day life, as Imogen – may her soul rot in perpetual filth – did at least leave me well provided for on her death. I have not needed to work, not needed to join the dismal parade of office workers or factory ghouls, to put food (and indeed very fine food indeed) on my table.

But this does little to assuage the feeling of dislocation I can experience when trying to plan something properly. Imogen’s conditioning did not seem to affect her this way, perhaps it did not take as well, or the practitioners and handlers were less (or possibly more) skilled than she. Indeed Imogen always seemed frighteningly lucid, and most so when she was conditioning me. And teaching me, her less than stellar pupil, the ropes of the game.

So I am like some child with ADD more often than not. Food settles me, cooking, and contemplating a future with dear Francine. I shall call her Violet, I decide, as a tribute to the flowers so often on display at the patisserie. She looks like a Violet, a perfect royal flower, a blood line pure as her form displays, my perfect Aryan princess.

And see, I jump from discussing my disability (of sorts) immediately to other thoughts of her. And this is not helpful when you are planning the perfect abode for your love. I must rely on others – salepersons and trades-people and for my specifications they must be totally discrete and understanding. It would be far better if I could coordinate the interior design completely on my own, buying items and elements from wide-ranging places, never leaving a trail. But I cannot, it would never be finished, and I yearn to bring my dear heart home.

And besides, people never go looking for the darkness, no matter how obvious the trail. Not really, otherwise they would have found Imogen years ago. I’d have lived the remainder of my young life in an institution somewhere, and even I can see I am better off now where I am. But my experience proves a larger truth. The world is utterly indifferent, and to think otherwise is just a happy delusion.

Still I take no real chances and rely on the discretion that only true wealth can secure, and I bark instructions and requirements as rapidly as possible, holding the entire vision complete for as long as my fractured mind can achieve. I am quite proud, ultimately, of how I manage this. It is no small thing for me.

But when you would house the very best, you must have the very best. And this is simple when it comes to bedclothes and household furniture and mirrors and finery. I flatter myself I know her taste. By day in the kitchen, of course, she wears no jewellery, but I’ve followed her at night from time to time and seen the simple gold items she prefers when she is out with her frivolous friends. She has exquisite taste no ostentation at all and she shines in this, of course, in comparison to her garish companions. So I build her abode with a similar aesthetic.

But for some of my other needs perfection is harder to come by, more expensive. Thankfully there is much left over in this ancient house from aunt Imogen, and for the most part it is still functional. The tried and tested tools may be the best.

Still, implements of exquisite learning should be private, they should not be shared. I was quite specific about this. She would not be touched by some of the crude implements Imogen reserved for me. That would be an abomination. The finest steel, the newest medical equipment, the best lighting: these were all essential and took planning and took money and took the silence of those from the dark.

It was exhausting, but slowly it grew and developed and I saw the perfect home materialise before me as though someone had skilfully read my mind and recreated it whole. Downstairs, the place of learning and fitful sleep. Upstairs, the best kitchen money could ever buy. A prohibitively expensive security system finished it off, turning this old home into a modern mecca for development and love. Even my mind found solace in that, and the chance to contemplate with more calm and time than normal. It felt, finally, like my home, not hers, not Imogen’s.

Or our home, dear Violet, my blessed, perfect bride to be.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2015, All Rights Reserved

About helenvalentina

Like most people, I have a number of sides to me. The most interesting one probably emerges through my writing, hence this blog. I love to read, and also to write, and so this is a way to share both.
This entry was posted in Serial Horror Stories, The Flavour of Spite and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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